


Archaic

by IFrozeYourCookie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, I dont know how to tag, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Unresolved Emotional Tension, im sorry for this, not really - Freeform, this hurts to write, you'll understand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-07 00:36:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15897327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IFrozeYourCookie/pseuds/IFrozeYourCookie
Summary: Inspired by a Tumblr post that argues the event of if John loses his cool and accuses Sherlock for being a freak and demands normality for once. Sherlock, who had been comfortable being himself around John, would feel betrayed and raised back all the barriers he put down upon being close to John. This fic is simply the route to rebuilding their strained relationship after the incident.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I may be an author but this is the first actual fanfic I had made. So, kuddos and comments are all very much appreciated. Sorry for any inaccurate descriptions and terms because I didn't search anything up while writing as I am busy in writing multiple other works.

“Oh… He is brilliant! Hiding poison in ice and administering it in his lover’s drink, truly brilliant!” Sherlock praised aloud on the crime scene. Of course, everyone on scene were making faces of disgust mixed with surprise of how he managed to uncover a poison inside a seemingly transparent ice cube. John, who was following right behind and jotting down each and every detail of interest on his notepad for the report, stopped midway, bewildered at how Sherlock just doesn’t care about what other people were thinking of his bluntness and his amazement for the criminal techniques (which isn’t new) but the woman at the side was terrified. She was the lucky one to stumble across a dead body in a pub that day. A mouth-foaming, blue, body.

“Sherlock,”

“Can’t you see, John? Finally some interesting case after so long! This is such a refreshment. An appetizer!”

“Can you tone down a bit? That poor witness is terrified, for fucks sake, and you’re-”

“These Yarders finally know how to filter the best crimes for me to solve. Things above a 7 and-”

“SHUT UP, SHERLOCK!”

It was like all movement went still and the air went static. He was finally quiet, forced out of his tirade and properly facing John, whose face forms a series of creases between the brows and sides of the mouth. Usually this would be the queue for Sherlock to make a sarcastic remark or along the lines of that, but John’s expression glued his mouth shut. He could only make eye contact as if to tell John to continue what is it so important to be said. Well, at least Sherlock wished he would pull him to the side before bursting into flames and engulfing Sherlock along, because what he felt after John’s response couldn’t possibly be hid behind his mask of indifference before being noticed by anyone.

“John. What-”

“No, Sherlock. Seriously, shut up. There’s a lady there traumatized because not everyday she sees a dead body like you do, and you going all impressed and going off on the criminal’s methods, it’s like you don’t give a shit about anyone’s feelings, not even me!”

John was aware he was spitting venom because if Sherlock’s expression was anything to go by, he was immensely hurt. Like a child being separated from his longtime best friend. But he couldn’t stop his mouth before he regretted anything.

“For once, Sherlock, for one fucking moment, could you act normal and stop being such a freak?! All you did was ruin my life and you’re ruining everyone else’s by being, well, you! So stop it, okay? Stop being whatever it is you are, polite term being ; a freak,”

 

If people ever said about time being still as a ridiculous metaphor, they’d obviously never experienced anything like at the exact moment. John had said everything out loud, inside the perimeter of the crime scene and in front of the present Scotland Yarders. It wasn’t embarrassment that Sherlock felt (well maybe a bit) but the emotion that clouded everything was betrayal, fear and despair. The giant, gray, cloud of hurt. Everyone stood still, mainly because it was a sensitive situation, so fragile that one careless move could cause so much more than a catastrophe, but Sherlock, the self-acclaimed sociopath and the seemingly cold machine, was unblinkingly still, unmistakenably as if having a malfunction. Suddenly all of Sherlock’s scars started to ache, because the betrayal he felt rooted from the two horrific years of ‘hide-and-seek’ as John had poetically called it, and the bullet scar in his chest which resembled of his effort to restart his heart and of Mary’s scar which took her away from John and caused him to be a subject of mental abuse for being the sole cause of her death. For John being a widower and for Rosie being left without a mother. His eyes started to feel itchy from the dam threatening to spill out all of his hateful tears, to expose his vulnerable sadness. His right hand that held the signs of PTSD started to tremble slightly at the fear he felt deep in his chest. Why does it hit him straight to the heart, like a blunt dagger that had to be repeatedly thrust in to reach his heart? Why must John’s words hurt, so much.

 

He never had any problems with people calling him a freak, obviously, because if anything, it was because they ran out of vocabulary to properly describe him. Donovan’s accusation had come a long way before John, it had became a routine for her and for Sherlock to coolly respond with a smart remark. But John, his dear John, the one who made him feel actually worth something and not just a tool to solve problems, had call him a freak. A freak.

 

Donovan’ chuckle that was unsuccessfully (but purposely) hid under a pretentious cough was what had brought Sherlock out of his thoughts. He broke the unfocused eye contact he had with John throughout his train of thoughts and only managed to fix his gaze on the tarmac. He will not be an image of another emotional breakdown, so he covered it all up with his infamous cold expression before looking up to John who surprisingly looked like he was physically punched in the gut. Seeing all the barriers Sherlock had put down since their friendship had started being rebuilt in mere seconds had stirred something in John’s stomach. He felt sick, and he wanted more than anything in the world to take back what he said because even himself knows he had said all of those hurtful comments without thinking about Sherlock, who is honestly just a human with high intellect and emotions too. He had only reminisce on all the bad news he had received over the years and somehow pinpoint Sherlock as the main culprit, although that’s not so true, now is it?

 

“Oh,” the unwavering chilly baritone voice spoke out eventually while holding his gaze onto John’s.

“Wait, Sherl-”

“I’m sure your impeccable Yarders can proceed from this point onwards, Detective Inspector. And I don’t mean by only this case.” John had saw the surprise in Lestrade’s eyes when Sherlock casually cut ties with his work in front of everybody. Then Sherlock averted his gaze to Donovan, who subconsciously shift her weight from one leg to another when she felt the sharpness of his gaze, squinting his eyes in disgust, before making his final comment on scene,

“I hope you’re happy with what happened, Sergeant. Good day.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the italics wouldn’t show in the fic when I posted em IDK why. Helppp

Usually when he sees Sherlock’s Belstaff flowing gracefully behind the slim figure, he’d be happy, ecstatic and filled with adrenaline. But that day, John was as frantic as ever as he saw the figure ducked under the yellow police tape, hands in his coat pockets and moving towards the nearby park. It was definitely hard to catch up with Sherlock’s long strides but when he eventually managed to approach Sherlock, they were under a shady tree and it was nearing sunset hour. Before he could say anything, he saw Sherlock igniting a cigarette and blowing long puff of smoke in one long breath.

“Sherlock?”

“Why are you here? You seem like an adequate companion of Donovan instead of me, it seems. Go along now,”

“Sherlock, listen to me, please,”

“Nope,” he replied, with the popping of the ‘p’ at the end. John could only sigh and put pressure on the depressions of his head with his left hand.

“Sor-”  
”You were the only one,”  
”What?”

“The only person who never called me a freak, or even considered me as one in any other terms. I honestly felt stupid, John, for letting you under my skin and destroying myself for you. Truly I wished I was the machine you once accused me of but, I’m… I’m just human, John. I’m just…” his voice broke at the last word, and the uncharacteristic detail of that worry John beyond imagination. The thought that he might have managed to break Sherlock beyond repair scared him. He had put Sherlock through hell in and out whenever he had troubles containing his anger and never once he thanked him? He had just called his best friend a freak. Were they still even friends?

 

“So was it all archaic then?”

“I’m sorry?”  
”All the compliments you have given me over the years. Are they sympathetic attempts that are actually hollow in the inside?”

“N-no! I was actually genuinely impressed with every deduction. Everything was beyond belief,”

John thought that clarification would’ve eased the tension between them even just a bit, but he could only see Sherlock bowed his head down, maintaining his gaze on his dress shoes. The sight of a tear falling from Sherlock’s face onto his black shoes had tensed John and sent goosebumps down his arms. Sherlock doesn’t cry in front of people. This was wrong. Very, very wrong.

“Why are you doing this to me, John? I-I don’t know how to deal with these hurricanes of emotions I’m currently feeling and I hate this,” he said in merely a whisper, but given the distance between them, John could hear each and every word from Sherlock’s shaking mouth.

“You might never forgive me, Sherlock, but I am sincerely sorry and-”

“I… I need space. Go home John. It’s almost dark and you need to pick up Rosie. I just need to… think,”  
”If you’re sure,”

“I’m sure that at least you owe me privacy at times like this,”

“O-okay. Come back soon, okay, Sherlock?”

Of course he didn’t answer. He’d be tired of John by then. His only response to John’s question was moving to a nearby bench and continued with his smoking.

 

 _ _Ugh John Hamish Watson, you completely fucked up. But just… relax for a bit. Whatever decision Sherlock makes, it’s for his own good. You’ve damaged him quite enough so let him decide what HE wants and not what YOU want.__  John couldn’t help himself from the thoughts alongside some self-loathing. He had asked Mrs Hudson to care for Rosie for the night and most probably the next day because he needed to settle whatever feud this was with Sherlock.

 

He had had Sherlock’s trust for so long, letting him feel special for once in god knows how long, only to break him with the one word he never would’ve thought would come out of his own mouth. It was like a forbidden word for him because even if Sherlock doesn’t care about that word, it would’ve hit him even just a bit, because if it was John in Sherlock’s shoes, it would hurt him. And the thought had broke his heart even more ; what if Sherlock just doesn’t care anymore because it’s been spoken out loud to him too many times? That John’s compliments had been the one that made him realize that compliments were still valid for Sherlock? The simple compliments John had given Sherlock meant so much more that he’d anticipated, enough for Sherlock to risk himself every single time for John; being dead for two years, running into a bonfire, telling him to exit a bomb-filled train for his wife without him, shooting an important man because he wanted Mary for John. Too much he had done but too little John had did to properly repay him back. __Oh Sherlock. I hope you come back home soon.__

__

__~_ _

__

It was already dark by the time he got tired from all the emotions. He was basically drained. If it weren’t for the streetlamp, he would’ve relocate himself to another place. But the absence of life there was enough reason despite the dim light for him. Alone. __Alone protects you, doesn’t it? Look at you’ve got yourself into. Hiding in a park bench with your bloodied hand. Such pitiful sight, you are.__  He knew what John said was out of pure stress and anger because the volumes of his voice radiates from it. He felt it and wanted to cower in a corner because of the intensity of it. But those anger weren’t necessarily meant for Sherlock, it’s just that he was the only one present that he can express those distress onto. The one and only one present that relates to all of John’s source of anger. Maybe he truly was at fault. It was all his fault, his trigger. Maybe that’s true, but the thought of his efforts wasted just like that had been too painful. He had been too involved in this friendship, too invested in this friendship because… he had hoped at one point that it would blossom into something more. Once before. Before Sarah, before Jeanette, before Louise and before… Mary Morstan. Before all the desperate attempts at denying his sexuality by dating more and more women and ended up tying the knots with Mary, which ended with Sherlock being more or less the reason she’s gone. He can see why John was furious, at him. And now he’d been declared a freak by his John, he couldn’t see why he should actually keep hoping for something more. If he’s just a friend, the accusation would only seem like a tease but he wasn’t just a friend. He was an almost something. Almost, but just enough, because he doesn’t deserve more. A freak had no such privilege.

 

He’s clutching his right hand with his gloved left in an attempt to stop the bleeding but it served no purpose whatsoever. It only helped him feel more pain, and distract him from the one inside his chest. A distraction was what he needed then and there. Pain might’ve been a very bad choice, so he looked up the sky. Judging from how clear the sky was, it must be somewhere around after 2 in the morning. He took off his left leather glove to retrieve his phone from his coat pocket, and as if on queue, a ping was heard. Hesitantly, he grabbed the phone and glancing quickly at the time before reading whatever notification had came in. 03:47a.m. It’s so late for him to be out at this time. No wonder he was freezing. He glanced downwards and saw a name he never would’ve expected. He had expected Mycroft’s meddling because like Sherlock, he just doesn’t sleep. It was a text that made him as anxious as he is relieved about it.

 

__03:47am_ _

__Sherlock, are you okay? I know I should leave you alone but it’s so late and I can’t help myself but worry. Reply soon._ _

__

John. Was he as anxious as he is? Usually he’d be dead asleep by now, not staying awake worrying about him. He couldn’t help from forming a slight smile at the thought of a caring John Watson. The John he fell for.

 

__03:49am_ _

__Yes. I am fine_ _

__-SH_ _

__

__03:50am_ _

__Have you moved at all?_ _

__

__03:52am_ _

__No. Same park, same bench_ _

__-SH_ _

__

He took his time replying to Sherlock’s text. That had only made Sherlock more anxious because obviously the next text was well thought out and may be risky.

 

__04:01am_ _

__Do you mind if I come to you? I can’t sleep and I can bring you some hot coffee. It’s freezing outside._ _

__

__04:05am_ _

__I don’t mind, but only if you really want to come._ _

__-SH_ _

__

__04:06am_ _

__Yes. I’m sure, Sherlock._ _

__

__04:08am_ _

__Please bring your medical kit along._ _

__-SH_ _

__

__04:09am_ _

__Ok. Stay where you are. I’ll arrive in 5 minutes._ _


	3. Chapter 3

John was beyond pleased that at 4 in the morning there were still cabs taking customers and that not many people will be hailing one because god knows he rarely succeeded getting one in broad daylight. Throughout the drive he was fidgeting with the medical bag in his left hand and the coffee cup in his right. He had drank his hot coffee earlier and wore extra thick outerwear to withstand the night breeze in order to deal with whatever the medical bag was supposed to be for and to make sure all attention was towards Sherlock. _His_ Sherlock. His guilty pleasure, as one would put it. He didn’t realize the cab had stopped if it weren’t for the cabbie’s signal; the classic throat clearing. He paid for the ride without asking for a change and went straight to the dimly lit bench before freezing in spot a few meters away. He’s very much nervous, so he decided to scan the surrounding beforehand (though he was sure Sherlock knew he arrived). The exact bench was the one with the dimmest light shone over it and the one with the biggest tree as shelter if it were to rain. The tree seemed… wet. But from that distance plus the lighting he couldn’t make out what was the fluid adorned on the sides of the tree. He carefully made his way towards Sherlock and when he was close enough, he could make out that the fluid on the tree was blood. Fresh blood. Panicked, he moved so he was properly in front of Sherlock and had his suspicion confirmed. The blood was his.

 

“Sherlock,”

“John. Sorry I didn’t realized you arrived,” he said with a brief eye contact, as if to make sure he was not talking to a wrong person. John gingerly nodded at the statement and hand out the hot coffee to Sherlock, who grabbed it with his uninjured hand. A short contact of their fingers had made John feel relieved he brought some hot drink because he was as cold as a dead corpse in water, or in the morgue.

“Are you okay?”

“I would instinctively say I’m fine but I’m just not sure anymore,”

“You’re freezing but you won’t come back home,” it sounded like a plead, not an empty blame on him. Sherlock could only respond by ducking his head lower, in embarrassment. But he snapped his head back up when he felt a fabric being wrapped around his shoulders and saw John wrapping him in an extra scarf he had brought along with him there.

“John, you really don’t have to,”

“No, but I insist, Sherlock. You can’t expect me to leave you in the freezing cold for so long,” he finished wrapping the scarf around Sherlock, but kept his hands at the end of the scarf, looking at it with pure disappointment.

“All these times, these two hands did so much more damage to you than the oppos-” before he could finish, Sherlock grabbed his hand, startling him.

“You know that’s not true, at least I know it isn’t.”

Who was he kidding? Of course Sherlock would try to defend him as much as possible no matter how strained their relationship was so all he could do was nod at the words Sherlock had said. He took Sherlock’s hand in his and knelt in front of him, to have better access at treating the wound.

 

The gaze from Sherlock was truly drilling and unsettling but he kept his focus on the bloodied hand in his. _ _Knuckles are slightly torn open but the middle one might need a few stitches. Some cooling ointments would do for the bruising around the wound, thankfully for the cold weather assisting the blood clotting.__ When the wound on his knuckles were covered with sanitized gauze, he realized that the blood just seemed to be too much for just a knuckle wound, but when he trailed his fingers towards the unbuttoned sleeve cuff, he sensed the tense growing in Sherlock, but no signs of protest, so he pushed up the sleeve and his heart broke. Under the dark coloured sleeve were lines and lines of self-inflicted cuts, but given the uneven lines, it was not from a knife but- John eyed some broken twigs and branched at Sherlock’s feet which was covered in some blood and he instantly looked up to properly see into the pale eyes that expressed the wonders of the galaxy, but when he did, it was… empty. Just… sadness and fear. None of the usual thrill and brilliance. He put his hand on the pale nape and pull him down slightly before wrapping his arms around the broken figure, in hopes to put him back together. But before he knew it, the shoulders he was hugging was starting to shake ever so slightly and Sherlock was holding back tears.

 

“Shh Sherlock, just let it all out. It’s okay, it’s just me.” And with just that, Sherlock clenched onto the fabric of John’s jacket and hid his face in the crook of his neck before letting all the tears fall. When his breathing started to even out, he placed the cold cheeks in between his small hands gave the most reassuring smile he could make out before speaking once more,

“Let’s go home, Sherlock.” He hid his red-rimmed eyes and just nodded to the request and leans into the touch. __He could’ve been hypothermic if he stayed much longer,__ the doctor in him fussed before he packed up the medical kit and stood up along with Sherlock, handing him his untouched coffee.

“You might want to hold on to that for the heat,”

“Ri-right. Thank you, John,”

“No need to thank me. Now come along, the warmth of home should do you good.”

He was surely not imagining the small tug of the end of Sherlock’s lips after not seeing it for so long when he said “Home”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im sorry this chapter is shorter but the next (and final) chapter is a lot shorter because my thought processes are blocked by many other works soooo :)

 

 “There. That should do,” John said after covering the wounds with a roll of bandages after cleaning up the blood and putting on some necessary ointments. He tried so hard to maintain his ‘good, friendly doctor’ persona for Sherlock’s sake because some more meddling would honestly anger Sherlock even more. But for John, it was crucial to know everything and understand Sherlock, even if it’s through shouting and screaming.

“Sherlock. I’m sorry. I mean it,” he said while keeping his hand on top of the bandaged arm.

“You should be,” John wasn’t expecting that. Sherlock had always been forgiving John and dismissing his apology as something unnecessary without hesitation, but his cold, short, and brusque comment hit John in the chest.

“Wh- what-”

“I said; you SHOULD BE!” John had never heard Sherlock raised his voice that high, and in addition to that - so full of anger, it made John want to cower in the corner somewhere, like a terrified puppy.

“YOU FUCKING SHOULD BE! *sigh* John, I’m surprised you never register that any of what I did was for you. I died for you, I killed for you, and I’m broken for and by you. What do you fucking want?! I had done all of that because I thought you were actually the one that genuinely liked my peculiarities. The quality that had repelled so many others, I had honestly thought you liked me for me. Evidently I was so wrong. Maybe you’re just here for the fame, or maybe for the money or prizes we get after a solved case. I don’t even know, anymore. And I fucking hope I shouldn’t worry anymore because I’m just tired of all these bullshit, John. It’s like having literal years of my life wasted on someone who had only been holding off the word ‘freak’ because he had to! Maybe Mycroft was the one to convince you to not hurt my feelings or else you’d be incarcerated or something. Well guess, what John? No need to pretend anymore, because I’M DONE!” Sherlock had said all that with so much fear, anger and resignation, that it couldn’t be delivered as swift as his usual deductions. As he said, he was done.

 

John was bewildered of what to do. How to react. Who wouldn’t be, if they heard such angry confession in their face? Sherlock was clenching his hair, making it into an array of mess, when John tried to reach for one of his arms.

“Sherlock?”

“No, John! I SAID I’M DONE!” he slapped John’s hand away from him. __Good job, Watson. Now he hates you and he most probably are terrified of you, too. Great.__  John was now starting to tear up, because he could physically feel Sherlock slip away from him, that the man he loves the most in the world was fading from his life, and he himself was the very cause of it. He was too full of guilt to even realize that his eyes were watering. It wasn’t to fish for some sympathy but he saw how Sherlock’s eyes widen in disbelief and shock and he raised his hand to cover up his eyes.

“John, I really can’t… I shouldn’t let you under my skin again, because it hurts to love someone who doesn’t seem to appreciate what you did and see you as someone so __alien__ ,” his breath were now shallow and it was obvious that he was putting an effort to control his breathing but wanted to give up breathing at the same time.

“I don’t care if I’m not under your skin, but I don’t want to be under your wrath, __please__. Sherlock, please, because you are under __my__  skin. Sher - I love you too much to let you go,” John said in between sobs that he just couldn’t hold back anymore.

“You… love me?” asked Sherlock, as if it was the most ridiculous statement he had ever heard in years.

“I know you’re saying that because you feel guilty, John. I don’t need your petty sympathy-”

“It’s not sympathy, Sherlock! I really do love you, and it’s not out of pity,”

“People who __love__ others don’t hurt others, John. Mistakes, yes. But this is one huge mistake that both of us had done, and I couldn’t afford to make another one that I most probably regret; such as having hopes for you,”

“Please, give me another chance, Sherlock. You don’t have to forgive me, just let me prove to you that I do love you,” he pleaded but only got a scoff as an answer before finally being questioned back in return.

“Another chance? How many more do you want? A thousand more? Sure, John! But do you think that will change anything?”

“I hope so, honestly. But even if doesn’t change whatever it is now between us, I just want you to know what I had felt all these years and had been too much of a coward to admit to it,”

“Waste my time again, John Watson, and I won’t hesitate to have you removed from Baker Street by force,” he responded before going into the room and an echo of the door slamming shut and the click of the lock had been the cue for John to go back to his room.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you this chapter would be shorter than the last.

It had been weeks, heck it could even had been months since the incident. John didn’t count the days because he hated remembering the day he had regretted what came out of his mouth. Little by little , he tried to improve himself and be more considerate towards Sherlock’s feelings a lot more, and that had shown positive effect. Sherlock wasn’t fully comfortable with John, yet, but he was starting to open up to him like the old days, just with a mix of caution every now and then. John didn’t mind the extra precaution Sherlock took every time they interact because he deserved that treatment, as long as Sherlock was there, alive and talking to him without any visible anger present.

“John. Your therapy session is starting soon. Are you finished yet?” Oh right. John was attending therapy for his anger management and couples’ therapy. Sherlock didn’t like the term couple, because they aren’t, yet. He’d prefer if they rebuild everything beforehand, before diving into an actual relationship and patch up every hidden wound and appreciate every scar if they were to commit to each other. He had done his part. Now it’s John’s turn. If it weren’t for Sherlock, he wouldn’t attend any therapy session. But it’s the least he could do - comply to what he asked of John.

“Yes, I’m ready. You forgot your scarf, though,” John said while he held out the well-known blue scarf towards Sherlock, but he didn’t make a move to take it. Instead he just… bent down so he was eye level with John. An invitation.

“I’m trusting you,” John was hesitant but this was a chance Sherlock had given him, and he was more than happy to take it. He delicately brought the soft fabric around his neck, forming a loop on one end and tucking the loose end inside the loop.

“Thank you,”

“What for?” Sherlock countered the gratitude with a question.

“For slowly letting me in back in your life. I was so scared to lose you,”

“Your welcome,”

A pause. A long unresolved tension hanging in the air between them.

“I’d like to thank you as well,”  
“Hmm?”

“For trying so hard to prove yourself. I believe you, now,”

“Believe what?” John asked, scoffing, because he thought that Sherlock was just playing him. Or maybe saying things out of pity.

“That you really do love me,” that was not wrong, but it had caught the air in John’s throat. Acknowledging it had seemed wrong, out of place, considering of what he had done to Sherlock. And yet, Sherlock had accepted him back in no matter what condition, because, what? Because-

“And I love you too,” John head snapped back up, staring back into the verdigris eyes that was so full of unexpected compassion and care. He hadn’t expected that at all. All he could see inside those eyes the last time he dared to lose himself in the stare was emptiness, but now he was blessed with the spark he missed in those eyes.

“Y-you do?”

“Yes, of course I do,” he said as he placed his large hands on John’s cheeks when he saw that John’s eyes started to water, not wanting to believe that he had heard what he did, because he didn’t want to lose the moment nor to suddenly wake up from a deceptive dream. He gently placed a feather light kiss on John’s creased forehead and John’s tear fell the instant he felt the warm contact on his temple. He thought he had lost everything along with Sherlock, but in just a few little moments like these, everything was somehow magically rebuilt. Maybe they can fix the cracks in their pottery, or even fill them with gold and preserve the cracks that had taught them the value of each other. Maybe not everything done was ever archaic anymore. It was finally full of meaning.


End file.
